Many of Horror
by Alisha Ashton
Summary: (Sequel to Clear the Area). When a witch's spell brings out the very darkest part of Dean, will you survive to move past the nightmare together? Written so that you can put yourself in the role of the OFC. Set end of S8-ish. Slightly AU in the fact that Dean, Sam, Castiel, Kevin, and YOU all live in the MOL Bunker.
1. Lights Out

**WARNING** - this chapter contains depictions of torture. If you're on the fence about reading it, you can always skim through that part ;) The rest of the story will more than make up for it. Be sure to let me know what you think!

* * *

Dean was right. It isn't easy or perfect between you two. But it's still worth it. Gotta be willing to put up with some major bad when the good with Dean is just so... _sooooooo_ very good.

Seriously.

Like your-body-taking-over-the-top-position-on-Dean's-list-of-favorite-meals type good (though he assures you it still falls under the heading of 'pie'). Like blows-your-mind, rocks-your-world, makes-you-a-firm-believer-that-there-is-a-God-and-she-is-most-definitely-a-woman type GOOD.

The first major bad, though, comes courtesy of - not the divine-feminine responsible for Dean's flawless creation - but rather, a witch. Yeah, Dean's favorite, as he may have mentioned once or twice.

That evil bitch put the whammy on him right before you put a bullet in her brain (human or not, had to be done). And before you punched that hole in her third eye? She'd been rambling about how she saw a great darkness in Dean's heart.

Well, no shit, honey. Thanks for the news flash. The man's been to Hell and back - literally. As in, capital H, Hell. He's woken up buried 6 feet underground and had to claw his way to the surface. He's been through things out of the worst nightmares of even the most disturbed mind. He's got the sense memory of his mother burning alive when he was only four years old (the first time he'd done a salt and burn, he'd thrown up for an hour straight after realizing why he recognized the smell). He's felt his demon-possessed father tear him apart from the inside. He's lived his dream life, courtesy of a djinn, only to have to willingly give it up (by stabbing himself in the gut). He's seen his baby brother free-fall into the pit with Lucifer riding shotgun. He's seen his own monster of a daughter gunned down by his brother. He's recently spent a year fighting for his life 24/7 in Purgatory. If all of that (and so much more) won't put a black tinge on a person's heart, you don't know what will.

What the witch had seen, however, had been a tad bit more specific than a 'tinge.'

She saw a particular point in Dean's life. A walled-up and locked-down part of his personality that you had never dared to as much as take into consideration. And her last words, before some majorly ominous chanting, had been to tell you that she was going to set that dark part free.

Fast forward ten minutes or so, and here you are, crouching behind a shelf inside of this dilapidated, abandoned building with your gun clutched tightly in your trembling hands. Your eyes are wide and unblinking as you struggle to keep your labored breathing quiet. Your heart is hammering in your ears. Your adrenaline is pumping as you hide, desperately praying that you'll live to get away...

From Dean.

That's right. _Dean_. The same man you've spent the past 4 months attached to during sleep, sex, showering, and hunting. The man who'll undoubtedly star in 90% of your greatest memories if you ever get to Heaven (which just might happen here shortly). The man you can legitimately say you already love more than life itself, because Dean and the rest of Team Winchester are the only bright spots you have in a typical hunter's world of pain, horror, and fighting.

But the cheeseburger-loving, pie/'pie'-addicted, blanket-hogging, hair-nuzzling, lingerie-aficionado of a sex-God you fell in love with has evidently left the building. That is, if the freshly busted lip, black eye, broken wrist, and stab wound you're currently sporting are any indications.

Dean is... well... He's sort of stuck in Hell in his mind at the moment. And he's sort of a freaking _psychopath_. And he's sort of convinced that you're next up on his rack.

You have precisely ZERO interest in finding out what's supposed to happen on said rack.

But whatever it is, Dean seems pretty jazzed about it. He's all kinds of eager to get started, too, like someone just handed him a nice, shiny, new toy to play with.

It's surreal. I mean, yeah, you knew about his 40 year stint in Hell. You did. You even knew that 10 of those years were spent as Alistair's star pupil. But knowing and seeing are two different things. To actually _meet_ the guy he was back then? To be the one he's planning on torturing? So not doing wonders for your current mental state.

You wince and press your non-injured hand to the deep, burning, stinging, throbbing wound on your side. You suppose you deserved it for stupidity. You'd thought you might be able to snap him out of it. To - you don't know - maybe talk him out of wanting to carve you up like a Thanksgiving turkey? No such luck. But hey, at least he didn't puncture any vital organs.

You shudder and try not to think too much about that being intentional. About the fact that he could probably make the torture he has planned last for days.

That thought has you moving again, despite the fact that you really need to tend to your wound. He hasn't let up long enough for you to do anything to stop the bleeding. You're not sure how much longer you're gonna be able to keep this up.

To make matters worse, whatever spell was cast, it's starting to effect you, too. The cold interior of the building has started shifting in your perception to reveal the Hell that Dean is recalling. You can hear the echo of agonized screams and smell the stench of sulfur, blood, and burning flesh. You refuse to look up whenever Hell flickers into view. You do NOT want to know what's dripping on you or who it's coming from.

You wonder whether Sam and Castiel are having any luck getting in. That bitch's demon buddies activated wards and spells all around the exterior of the building after you and Dean crossed the threshold. You know Sam's gotta be losing it by now. You wouldn't want to be the one standing in his way, that's for damned sure.

A wave of dizziness makes you pause and grip the wall for support. You're nauseous and sweating. You're shaking like a leaf and have to fight just to keep your eyes open.

You don't even hear him coming.

"There you are!" He says way too cheerfully as he snatches you by the ponytail. Even as a psycho, he can't keep his hands off your hair. "Thought you were gonna stand me up," he teases before dragging you violently backwards across the floor.

You grit your teeth, trying in vain to hold back pained screams. You claw at his arms behind your head. You spread your feet out in either direction, desperately trying to hook them onto something.

"Ooh, got a lot of fight in you, huh?" He laughs. "Good. It'll make things more fun."

He brings a fist down and it's lights out.

**-SPN-**

When you come to, you realize - much to your horror - that you're officially in Dean's Hell. It's not flickering in and out anymore. It's taken firm hold. And when you try to move, you're terrified to find yourself expertly strapped down to some nightmare of a torture table.

You whimper when you look over and see Dean's back. He doesn't turn to acknowledge you, he's too focused on his impressively stocked sidebar'o'tools. You don't want to think about the purpose for a single one of the metallic instruments.

"Dean, babe, you've gotta snap out of this. You've gotta stop."

"_Babe_?" He repeats in amusement. "Let's see if I'm still 'babe' here in a minute," he comments as the corner of his mouth turns upward in a faint, dangerous smirk.

He goes on about his business, setting up for the day's work like it's Tuesday morning at the office.

"You're under some kind of spell. This isn't you. None of this is real. You got out of Hell. Don't you remember? It's me. You know me."

"Sorry, darling. I don't. And I'd damned sure remember being between these thighs," he assures with a wink as he turns towards you.

He bites his bottom lip, gazing down at you in a deadlier version of his usual aroused interest, and slowly slides his hand up between your legs. You struggle against the restraints, trying in vain to evade his touch. Strange, just a matter of hours ago, you'd been rather enthusiastically pressing down against that very same hand.

Dean chuckles at your attempts to shake him off and pats your thigh. "Shy, huh? Well, don't worry. By the time I'm done here, you're gonna open up for me in ways you never have for anyone else. I'm gonna know you inside and out. See parts of you that nobody else has ever seen..."

He brings a large blade up beneath your shirt, using it to slice away the fabric. His face is a complete blank slate as he works, devoid of any hint of feeling. And even his eyes, his normally expressive eyes, are cold and empty apart from traces of twisted pleasure.

"Dean, _please_," you whimper.

You're more than a little frantic at his lack of recognition, the uncaring feel of his hands brushing your skin. It's a stark and jarring contrast to his usual usual tenderness and passion.

"You have to remember me," you plead. "That scar, right where your hand is. I got it a month after we met. Pissed off poltergeist tossing knives. You stitched it up, remember? Just freaking look at it! You have to recognize it."

He gives the old injury a disinterested look in response... Then proceeds to slowly, carefully slide the knife in his hand through your scar, reopening the long-since healed wound.

Your eyes open wide in shock as you cry out. The astonishment you're feeling is equally as intense as the pain. Despite already having a stab wound on your other side from earlier, your mind is still struggling to come to grips with the fact that he's actually hurting you.

His eyes show just a hint of the sadistic amusement he's apparently feeling as he twists the blade slightly, just enough to send the pain soaring to a new level.

You gasp and pant, trying to find the strength to scream at him, "_Dean! Stop it! This isn't you anymore!" _

He slides the knife back out, now slick with your blood, and you fight to hold back tears as he tosses it onto the table. He reaches for something else, but you can't bring yourself to look at whatever's coming next.

Resorting to hard-learned pain management techniques in preparation for what's about to happen, your eyes hurriedly find a focal point on the ceiling and lock onto it. You try to block everything else out. Your voice is trembling and breaking as you force yourself to speak.

"Listen. To. Me. A witch hit you with something. This is a spell. It's not _real!_"

Dean doesn't even seem to hear you (not that he ever really has since this whole thing started.) He's far too intent and focused on what he's doing. He runs something metallic down the center of your stomach, then across, just below your navel. You can feel the pain building in response to what he's doing, but your mind refuses to try and identify the sensation. As if, somehow, knowing what's happening will make it hurt even worse. The pain grows gradually sharper, and you whimper as you feel warmth and wetness pooling on your stomach, spreading outward and running down your sides.

A quick jerk of his hand, and your entire body seizes in agony. You're in too much pain to even scream.

"_See? Knew you'd open right up for me_," he taunts breathily and you can hear the sadistic smile in his voice.

You fight the urge to throw up. You try to find a happy place. You cling to the memory of the first night Dean slept in your bed. You replay all of the sensations of warmth and comfort and safety, but the pain of your current reality is just too intense. It's too hard to reconcile the Dean of your memory against the Dean currently carving you up.

Your vision blurs and head spins as you fight to remain conscious. Just when you think you're going to black out, as if sensing your limit, he stops.

"Don't you go passing out on me yet, girl," he breathes against your ear. You shudder at the familiar roughness of his tone, at the sheer wrongness of hearing such a normally-thrilling sound in this nightmarish situation. "We're just getting started," he promises.

_Please, Castiel_, you pray desperately. _Please! You have to get in here right now. I don't know how much longer I'm gonna be able to take this. Dean is... He'_s...

You can't even put words to it. You instead focus all of your will on sharing what's happening to you.

Unbeknownst to you, outside the building, Castiel instantly goes stone still.

Now that the demons have all been dispatched, Sam is in the process of hurriedly destroying wards and spray-painting Xs through unfamiliar spell runes. Noting that the angel is no longer helping, he looks over at Cas in disbelief.

"Cas, come on, man! Hurry up!" Sam yells.

When Castiel looks over at him with a deeply troubled expression, Sam stops, too. He fights off a wave of panic as cold dread coils in his gut.

"What is it?" Sam asks fearfully. "Are they praying? Is _Dean_...?" He trails off as his voice breaks on his brother's name, afraid to even finish that sentence.

"We need to reach them. **Now**," Castiel declares and returns to the task of breaking the wards with renewed urgency. "He is killing her."

Sam's eyes widen, and he's already back to the task at hand before he demands, "_Who's_ killing her?"

Castiel looks over at Sam, his brow furrowed and eyes filled with sadness and worry as he answers, "Dean."


	2. A Slice of Silence

You squeeze your eyes shut as Dean cuts away your jeans, expertly working his blade around the restraints.

"This isn't Hell, Dean. I swear it. Please, babe. _Please_ listen to me. You have to stop. I'm going to **die** if you don't stop," you sob.

He chuckles as if you're being dramatic or something. As if that bell has long-since been rung.

But this _isn't_ Hell. You're not already dead. You're not some disembodied soul sentenced to torture as punishment for crimes you committed during your life. You're not going to regenerate so that he can keep subjecting you to these things. You're real, live flesh and blood. One life, one death, that's it. But he doesn't seem to realize it.

As he peels away the sliced up sections of your jeans, you're tempted to point out the ever-present hickey on your inner thigh, in hopes that he'll recognize his own handiwork... But after what happened with the scar, you decide against it.

Dean turns back to his tools, and you're grasping at straws, desperately trying to find something to say to make this stop. You really don't want to see what's up next, or find out why it required the removal of the rest of your clothing.

"Castiel pulled you out of Hell years ago," you insist weakly. "You made it back to Sam. Remember?"

Dean's hands pause in their work.

For the first time, he seems to have really heard you.

You curse your stupidity. Of course, he doesn't recognize you. Back when he was still knee-deep in Hell, the two of you had never met. He didn't flinch when you said Castiel, either, for the same reason. But Sam? How did you not pick up on this immediately?

"That's right, _Sam_. You got back to him," you insist. "He's right outside, Dean. You have to trust me. He's going to be here any minute."

"Stop talking." He orders calmly, but forcefully.

His hands remain still for another few seconds, his body rigid, until he apparently manages to shake it off. He resumes his work, preparing God-only-knows-what, but you can tell that you stirred up some kind of emotion.

_Good_. Maybe if he feels something, it'll get through to him. Maybe this is one time when poking the bear is a good idea.

You run through everything you know about Dean and Sam's lives leading up to the almost-apocalypse. You recall rumors you heard back then in the hunting community, back when 'the Winchesters' were just names to you. You replay every brief, telling conversation you've had with the brothers about their pasts. You try to find triggers... Things that will _hurt_... Things that will cut so deep, they'll make Dean angry or upset enough to fight the spell.

"No. I'm not gonna stop because you need to hear the truth. You got out of here. You made it back. And when you finally reached Sam, you found out that he'd been drinking demon blood, using his telepathy, and sleeping with some demon bitch named Ruby."

In response to that revelation, Dean grips a wicked-looking hooked instrument. You struggle to keep your voice steady despite your terror.

"She lied to him, Dean. She used him. She'd been conning him since the day they met. Once you were out of the way and Sam was at his weakest, she preyed on it. She told him that drinking her blood would make him strong. That she could help him save you, or at least get even for what was happening to you in Hell. But it was all lies. She manipulated him. She used his need to do right by you. She tricked him into letting Lucifer out of the pit, just like Azazel always planned. They played your entire family, Dean, remember? Even your Mom and Dad. They spent the entirety of Sam's life leading him to that moment."

"Shut up," Dean grinds out through clenched teeth.

You can see in the tense lines of his shoulders and back that he's barely holding his boiling temper in check. You press on. It's your last chance. Your Hail Mary.

"Sam jumped into the pit after Lucifer took him as his vessel. He sacrificed himself to save the world. You remember this, Dean. You were right there. You watched him fall. Tell me you remember watching Sam fall!"

Dean lets out a choked sob. He turns around quickly and, for just a fraction of a second, you can see the soul-deep, agonized regret in his eyes. Regret at the fleetingly surfacing memory of watching his baby brother fall when there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Just as quickly, the emotion is smothered out by the power of the spell...

And it slowly dawns on you that there's a very large, very sharp blade in Dean's hand.

"No more talking." He declares in a quiet, deadly voice that chills you to the bone.

It's not until he's got a firm grip on your chin that you realize how he intends to guarantee your silence.

_He's going to cut out your tongue_.

You don't know how you find the courage to open your mouth and shriek when every instinct is telling you to keep your mouth _shut_ and tongue out of reach. But if Sam and Cas are close, they might need help finding you. And you're officially out of time.

Somehow, you manage to wrench your jaw from Dean's grasp long enough to scream in terror, "_Saaaaaammmmm!_"

And then the cold blade slides into your mouth, and all you can do is cry out and frantically try to pull away from Dean's grasp. You writhe and shriek, fighting desperately against the restraints and Dean's hands as the sharp edge of his knife bites into the soft muscle of your tongue.

"**DEAN!**"

Sam's booming shout jars you both.

You feel Dean release your jaw. The blade slides out past your lips as the Hell around you instantly fades away, revealing the building that you'd almost forgotten you were really in. Your mouth is full of the metallic tang of blood, but aside from a gash, your tongue is thankfully still in one piece.

"_Sammy?_" Dean whispers in confusion and disbelief as he turns toward his brother, as if afraid to get his hopes up.

Having apparently entered the far end of the building at a dead run in order to reach you in time, Sam is breathing heavily as he cautiously steps closer.

"Dean... Oh my God... What the hell are you _doing?_" Sam demands in abject horror as he takes in the sight of his blood-soaked, blade-wielding brother.

Sam's wide, fearful eyes pass over the bloodied mess of your body quickly, assessing the severity of the situation. When he sees your stomach, the devastation and grief that flicker over his features before being carefully hidden away confirm that you're in serious trouble.

You suck in a resigned, heartbroken breath, realizing it's probably too late for you. If Castiel used up all his juice in the fight, you won't be leaving this building alive. Part of you feels like you should already be dead by now.

Sam shifts the gun in his hands, renewing his grip and steeling himself as he aims at his brother. By the determined set of his jaw, you know that if Dean doesn't back off, he's going to get a bullet from Sam to some non-fatal location of his body.

Struggling to escape the fog of the spell, to understand what's happening and why Sam is staring at him so fearfully, Dean's eyes flit to you for a fraction of a second.

The knife instantly falls from his hand, clattering on the floor.

Before he can even begin to process what he is seeing... what he has _done_... Castiel appears in front of him, directly between the two of you. The angel places his hand on Dean's brow, and Dean immediately crumples to the floor, unconscious.

You're not proud of it, but you feel yourself starting to go into shock. Not really much you can do about it, though. Sam and Cas are here. You know whatever happens, they've got you covered. All of the tears that you've held back during this ordeal decide that, with the guys now handling the situation, it's a very good time for you to have a complete nervous breakdown.

_Please, God. You don't want to die!_

It's strange how split down the middle you feel emotionally (and ironic, considering that you're probably split down the middle physically, too). One half of you is numb and shutting down. The other half is sobbing like a baby and reaching frantically for Sam as soon as he frees your arms from the restraints. He leans down over you, and you latch onto his shoulders, burying your face against the side of his neck and crying like you've never cried before.

The edges of your vision are tunneling fast, blackness sweeping in, trying to lull you into death as if it is no more consequential than falling asleep. You can feel your hold on Sam slipping, your arms sliding from his shoulders as your head becomes too heavy to hold up.

You're just so _tired_...

You're vaguely aware of Sam and Cas talking. Sam is panicking as you grow limp and quiet in his arms. He sounds like he might be crying, but you're too far gone to be certain.

Your eyes roll beneath their lids. For a fraction of a second, you think you see an elderly gentleman in a suit standing behind Sam. He inclines his head to you, the time-weary wrinkles of his face conveying what looks like... reassurance?

Just as quickly, he fades from view. Your heavy eyes close.

You hear Sam shouting at Castiel to hurry up and heal you, but Cas warns that he will only be healing your body. Apparently, the angel isn't as inept at reading a situation as he thinks himself to be. He realizes how truly screwed your mind and heart are at the moment.

Sam tells him to do what he can and assures that, once the angel is done, he will handle the rest.

You feel Castiel's hand on your forehead just before your pain intensifies, but at least the agony jars you back into your body fully, and away from a well-deserved death. It's so difficult to describe the sensation. You feel like you're being filled up with heat and light, like it should be beaming out of every pore, like it's burning you alive.

But amidst the excruciating pain, there is miraculous healing. At Castiel's direction, you can feel muscle and sinew mend and refashion itself to the form it was intended to take. You can feel flesh, that had been so viciously sliced and torn, rapidly regenerate. The pain intensifies exponentially until, finally, it is ripped away.

At the sudden loss of Castiel's light, the world feels terribly dark by comparison. Your body sags in Sam's grasp as you realize that your soul is grieved by the loss. Physical pain aside, the sensation was literally divine rapture.

You barely open your eyes and nod when Sam grips your face and urges you to tell him you're okay. You note the tears in his eyes and the heavy sigh of relief he gives in response. You hear him mutter a heartfelt, '_Thank God_,' that your life has been spared - that Dean has been spared the guilt and horror of having taken your life.

You hear him say something about Cas taking Dean to the bunker and chaining him up in the dungeon, just until they're sure he's really free of the spell. You see Cas lifting the still-unconscious Dean to his feet.

Despite your best efforts, you reflexively flinch at the sight of him upright again (and in the presence of so many sharp instruments still soaked in your blood.) You press closer to Sam.

Castiel meets your gaze remorsefully and inclines his head to you, conveying far more with that look than he'd believe himself capable of, before they both disappear.

You try not to feel bad about how relieved you are to be away from Dean...

* * *

**A/N: **Thoughts? Comments? Hate it? Love it? Can you see it clearly as you read? Is everyone in character? Let me know!


	3. Catatonia

You aren't entirely sure of how you got to this room. Or why Sam chose to move you both to a different motel than the one you'd been staying in before. (Probably because Dean knew where the last one was.)

You don't know what Sam used to cover you up while he transported you, and you don't remember him getting you into the sasquatch-sized t-shirt and sweatpants you're currently wearing, either. The dampness of your hair tells you that he must have washed all of the blood off of you, but you can't be bothered to care.

He's family. He's taking care of you. There is no one in the world you would be safer with in this situation. Not only are you a dear friend to him, you are also an extension of his brother in his eyes. If Dean is going to recover emotionally from the inevitable guilt of what happened, you need to recover first.

Sam is offering you food now - your favorite: chicken fingers with extra honey mustard - and you don't even know how it got here. Must have been delivered, because you'd damned sure have noticed being left alone.

He urges you to sit up and, in response to the sincerely worried tone of his gentle coaxing, you try to force yourself to eat for him. You get one bite down before your mind decides to lay out the path the food will take through your intestines... _The very same intestines that were probably pulled out into view by Dean not too long ago_...

You promptly throw up into the trash can with Sam holding back your hair.

Once you finally finish retching and dry-heaving, Sam helps you back onto the bed. You curl up into a tight ball, clutching your stomach protectively, and cry until you pass out.

You only manage to sleep for a matter of minutes at a time. You have a few pretty epically awful nightmares. Each is set back on that rack. Each is more horrible than the last.

The worst nightmare is not any of the versions in which Dean tortures you to death. No, by far, the worst is the one where the spell wears off just in time for Dean to be faced with what he's done, when it's too late to save you, when all you can do is gasp and gurgle on blood and try to tell him with your last breath that you don't blame him. The devastated look in his eyes as he weeps openly and his terrified, panic-stricken, _desperate_ screams for Castiel rip your heart in two.

You wake up calling for Dean and sobbing, and Sam holds you tight, shushing you and promising that it'll be okay.

You give up on sleep after that, reverting instead to your earlier catatonic stupor.

**-SPN-**

The next time you become aware of your surroundings, it's the middle of the night. Sam is seated in a chair he's pulled over beside your bed. He's sleeping, but within reach in case you need anything. You smile weakly in appreciation of his efforts to help you. He knew that, even if he were to sleep in the other bed, he'd be too far away for your comfort.

You don't know how, but you know Castiel is coming at least a full minute before he appears in the room. It's the only reason you've returned from catatonia - a niggling sensation, like a gentle knock on the door of your subconscious. You wonder whether he alerted you of his presence before coming into view. Seeing the cautious way he is currently eyeing you from across the room, as if afraid to startle you, you think that's probably pretty likely.

Sam jolts awake the instant Cas arrives, and you're thankful for the confirmation of how on-guard he is even while sleeping. It adds another layer to the sense of security his presence provides.

"How is he?" Sam asks, running a hand roughly over his face before shooting you a concerned glance. He obviously needs to know how his brother is, but he's clearly worried about broaching the subject in front of you.

"Dean has just awoken and is aware of his surroundings. He seems to be free of the effects of the spell," Cas offers. He tilts his head, squinting and giving Sam an exhausted look. "He is asking... a frankly _overwhelming_ number of questions," he sighs. "I did not know what to tell him. He wants me to bring him here, but I did not think that wise."

"Good call," Sam agrees. "So... what did you say?"

"I told him that he had fallen victim to a spell that made him a danger to himself and others. That you were ensuring the witch's spell had been nullified before permitting him to return. He is not at all happy with his current accomodations. And, most emphatically, he wishes to speak to _her_."

He points at you and they both eye you anxiously, waiting for some kind of reaction. You're too exhausted and emotionally numb to give any. You hope they take that as a 'Not yet.'

"Maybe not just yet..." Sam says.

Have you mentioned how awesome Sam is?

"What does he remember?" He asks.

"I do not believe he remembers much of anything that happened," Cas offers. "He is deeply confused and demanded to know the source of the blood on his clothing. I told him that he would need to direct his questions to you. He asked for a phone, but I thought it best that I speak with you first."

Sam looks over at you fretfully, clearly trying to figure out what he should say to Dean. You're not feeling communicative enough to hash out the pros and cons of telling Dean the truth vs. keeping it from him.

"All right. Good job, Cas. You can give him a phone. Tell him I'll call him. Just... do me a favor, if you're up for it? Bring Kevin back here with you. I don't want him alone in the bunker with Dean just in case this thing starts up again, and I don't want to leave her here alone while you and I go back to that building."

You feel two things in response to that statement.

One - overwhelming fear and panic. You're definitely not ready for Sam to leave! What if the spell comes back for another round? What if Dean comes looking to finish the job? What if he gets here and finds you and Kevin defenseless? How can Sam leave you already?!

Two - (as a result of your fear and panic) resolve and your usual strength. You can't let Kevin see you like this!

The thought is as effective as a bucket of ice water over the head to snap you out of your shock.

If Kevin gets here and sees you being a weeping, skittish mess, the kid will be terrified. He'll ask a million questions. And he damned sure can't be expected to protect you. He's the one who needs to be protected at all costs.

Enough crying, enough dwelling on what happened. Dean's chained up and confused, probably working himself into a frenzy worrying about what happened. They're about to leave him completely alone in the bunker. His panic is only going to grow if you dodge him.

It's time to pick yourself up and pull it together.

You take a deep, steadying breath, and stand up from the bed.

Sam stands immediately, staring at you and trying to figure out what you need. You reach over and squeeze his hand.

"I'm okay," you offer. "Thank you."

He looks down at you incredulously, knowing that's total bullshit, but he gives you a hesitant nod in response.

You go to your duffle and pull out some of your own clothes, as well as your makeup bag and hair brush. If you're going to put up the standard-issue hunter's front of being 'okay' after everything you just endured, you're gonna need some serious concealer.

You walk to the bathroom door and pause, looking over your shoulder at Sam. You force your voice to remain steady as you say, "Wait until I get out to call Dean. I'll talk to him."

**-SPN-**

Castiel has just returned with Kevin by the time you exit the bathroom. The prophet waves to you in greeting, just like any other day, and you realize that Cas and Sam have not told him what happened to you. Also, that your cosmetic efforts were clearly a success.

Sam's phone rings and he sighs. "So much for waiting for me to call him."

"Well, he _is_ sorta shackled up and alone in the dungeon for some reason," Kevin offers as he helps himself to your leftover chicken fingers from the fridge. "Bound to make a guy impatient."

Sam gives you a meaningful look as he answers his phone, barely getting it to his ear before Dean is asking questions.

"Dean... Yeah, I'm fine... Yeah. She's right here... She's fine, too." He gives you a pointed look at that blatant lie, but manages to say it smoothly. "Yeah, I know... Yes... _Yes_, Dean... As soon as we can... What do you think it means?... I realize that... That, too... It was a spell... What do you mean, 'what kind'? The **bad** kind... No, I'm not screwing with you, I'm just kind of busy right now... I'll get into it with you later... No. Later... Yes... _Fine!_... Hang on."

He holds out the phone, mouthing, 'Are you sure?' He waits for you to nod before reluctantly handing it over.

"Hey, Dean," you manage, forcing a smile onto your face so that he'll hear it in your voice. You've been hunting for more than a decade. You draw on every bit of experience in order to fake being 'fine.' You only hope it'll be enough to fool Dean.

"Baby? _Thank God_," he sighs in relief into the phone. "Are you okay? What the hell happened? Nobody's telling me anything."

"I'm good. How are you feeling? That bitch's spell letting up yet?"

"I'm... fine," he answers hesitantly.

It's obvious that he noted your lack of an explanation.

"I...um...can't remember much," he continues when you don't say anything. "We were about to take that witch down and then... I just... I think I remember stuff, but I don't know what was real and... I mean... I... I can _see_-"

His voice breaks and the line goes silent for a long moment, aside from the brief rattling of chains. You know he's holding the phone away from him. You try not to wonder why.

When he begins talking again, you don't have to wonder. You can tell he's holding back tears. His voice is hoarse and tense with barely retrained emotion.

"When can I come there? Or can you come here? I just... I need to see you. Please."

You try to keep your emotions in check, but your lips tremble as you hold back your own tears.

So, he does remember something. Damn it.

But he's not sure. He thinks it may have been a spell-induced hallucination.

You pray that you can find a way for him to continue believing that, at least for a little while. You really don't want this to cut him down. That spell hurt you enough for the both of you. If you could spare him even a bit of the emotional fallout, you'd be immensely thankful.

"Soon, Dean," you offer in a strained whisper.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Kevin stop mid-chew and eye you worriedly. He looks to Sam, silently seeking the details he knows are being withheld from him.

Sam expertly avoids his questioning gaze.

"What about Cas? Can't he bring you here?" Dean presses hopefully. "He just took Kevin away. Maybe he could-"

You bite your lip and close your eyes. Most of you is dying to get to him, to hold him and tell him everything is fine. But there's a part that is positively terrified of facing him. What if you find yourself instinctively afraid of him now? What if you can't mask that fear? What if you recoil from his touch? This is going to be hard enough for you both to get through without your involuntary reactions adding fuel to the fire. Dean already turns guilt into an Olympic event (for which he refuses to relinquish the gold.) Maybe if you have just a little more time to prepare...

"Castiel had a really busy day," you cut in to answer vaguely. "I don't know when he'll be up for playing angelic-taxi again."

You wish you couldn't tell just by Dean's breathing that he's trying to suppress a sob in response to your avoidance.

"_Please_, baby?" He whispers desperately, and now, the tears are plain in his voice. "I feel like I'm losing my damned mind over here. Just... It'll only be for a minute. I know you guys have to be sure that I'm really clear of whatever she did. I'll stay chained up. Cas can be here, just in case."

Your heart breaks for him.

Despite all of your fears and hesitation, you hear yourself reply, "I'll ask him, okay?" You don't even realize you're crying until the salty tears roll down your lips.

"Now?" Dean urges impatiently.

"I'll ask now. Let me call you right back." You disconnect the call and wonder whether or not this is a bad idea...


	4. Too Much Truth

"This is a bad idea," Sam declares fretfully twenty minutes later, leaning against the bathroom doorframe with his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest. He worries his bottom lip as he watches you going over your appearance one last time in the mirror.

You smile weakly, but reassuringly, in reply.

"Maybe you should just take a little more time," he suggests, his eyes clearly conveying his strong dislike of this plan.

"I've gotta face him, Sam," you respond determinedly.

You shake out your hair and recheck it for the dozenth time, ensuring there are no traces of blood left behind. You've already showered (despite Sam having apparently bathed you while you were in shock) and reapplied your makeup, paranoid that there's going to be some evidence left behind on your body that will traumatize Dean.

"It's the only way we're gonna get through this together," you insist. "I'm not gonna lose him over this shit. She might have made me suffer, but I'll be _damned_ if that wicked bitch is gonna cost me Dean."

"I know. And I get it. I do. But..." Sam pauses, biting his bottom lip as if attempting to prevent words from tumbling out.

After a moment, he abandons the effort to hold his tongue. He growls in frustration, shoving off of the doorframe and moving to stand beside you.

"It's just...everything is still so fresh. And I think you're pushing yourself to move past what happened to you _way_ too fast. And we haven't even cleared that building yet! What if there's something back there that's sustaining the spell? What if she really cast it on _both_ of you and, as soon as you're together again, it starts back up? What if he's still effected by it _right now_ and he's just acting fine on the phone to get you there? Cas can't transport all of us! I'd really rather be there when you see him! After what he-?"

He stops abruptly, his voice having risen gradually during that brief rambling outburst of concern to the point where he was almost shouting at the side of your head.

His jaw clenches furiously as he puts his hands on his hips, swallowing hard and staring down at the floor.

When you turn to face him fully, it finally hits you, just how badly this whole ordeal has shaken Sam. You frown sympathetically and step closer to him, trying to meet his tearful, hazel gaze.

"Sam?" You call gently, reaching out and taking his massive hand in your comparably-tiny one.

Reluctantly, he meets your eyes.

"_I was almost too late_," he says as if it's a confession. "I almost lost you both. If you had died? I don't even know what we would have done. Dean would have just checked-out mentally. He'd've been dead inside a month. Not that he'd ever eat a bullet, but he'd damned sure have found something to kill him on a hunt. And even if he didn't? Even if he managed to stuff it all down to face another day, how would I have looked at him the same? As it is, I don't know what to say to him. I can't stop _seeing_..."

He trails off and closes his eyes tightly, willing the images to stop replaying in his mind.

You tug his hand, silently directing him to sit on the edge of the tub. It's the only way you're going to be able to hug him and properly provide comfort. With him seated and his head now shoulder level with you, you pull him into your arms.

He returns your embrace tightly, grateful for some seldom-received reassurance. From what you know of their lives, you're doubting they ever got any post-traumatic-experience-hugs.

"You're allowed to freak out for a little bit over what happened, Sam," you offer simply, resting your chin on top of his head. "But you have to remind yourself that it wasn't him."

"I know he's not that guy _anymore_," he answers hoarsely, "but at one point in his life-"

"At one point or another, we've all done things we aren't proud of," you cut in to offer purposefully.

Sam rolls his shoulders guiltily beneath your arms before sighing and sagging against you in defeat. He doesn't let go of you, though.

"But that's not the person Dean is today, and it hasn't been for a long time," you remind. "He got past that point in his life, that person he had no choice but to become in an impossible situation."

You idly stroke Sam's hair, your eyes trained on your reflection. Your voice grows steadily more assured as you speak, as if you need to hear this as much as Sam does.

"It took them three decades of torture - undoubtedly way worse than what I got - to push him that far. And the only way that part of him was able to resurface now was entirely against his will. No matter how brutal this ordeal was for me, I can't forget that he's a victim in this, too. The way your brother shoulders guilt? That bitch just signed him up for a far longer and more intense torture than what I went through."

Sam sighs exhaustedly at the truth of that statement.

"What are you gonna tell him?" He asks as he lets go of you.

You look down into his tired eyes as you take a step back. "As little as I possibly can."

**-SPN-**

Castiel transports you to the dungeon before you have much more time to dread the confrontation. The instant you become aware of the change in surroundings, you hear the rattle of the chains from behind you.

Dean sits up eagerly in his seat at the table, staring at you in a cross between awe, relief, and devastation.

"You have _no idea_ how good it is to see you," Dean assures. "Can you...? I mean... Is it safe for you to come over here?" He asks hopefully.

"_I would greatly prefer for you to maintain your current distance_," Castiel insists quietly...

Though not quietly enough for Dean to miss it. His eyes flash with renewed concern when he catches the angel's words.

You give Cas a warning look, reminding him to watch what he says. Turning your attention back to Dean, you answer, "I guess that depends. How are you feeling?"

"Confused. Pretty freaked out, to be honest," he admits reluctantly. "But fine, otherwise, I guess. I mean, I'm not hurt or feeling out of it. What happened? What the hell did the spell do?"

"It... made you less than fun to be around," you reply with a forced smile.

"Right, yeah," Dean looks down at the table top. He gives a humorless laugh and nods jerkily, but his eyes are welling up as he struggles to keep it together. "Baby, when I woke up..." he croaks, but he has to stop to hold back a sob.

While he fights the urge to break down, you fight the urge to rush to him, to hold him and kiss him and tell him it's all okay.

"It's just... There's just _so much blood_," his voice breaks as he pushes away from the table and looks down at himself tearfully.

You follow his gaze and fight a wave of nausea and terror.

He's still wearing the same clothes he arrived here in. He's still covered from his fingertips up to his elbows...all down the front of his shirt and jeans...in your dried blood.

"_Jesus Christ,_" you whisper before you can stop yourself. You clamp your hand over your mouth and suppress a gag, thankful that Dean is too busy staring at the blood to catch it.

You didn't think to ask. You just assumed Castiel would have cared for Dean the way Sam cared for you. But Cas is a soldier of Heaven, and he doesn't automatically take human emotional reactions into account. In his mind, preventing Dean from doing further harm trumped all. Sparing him - or you, for that matter - the sight of blood was never even taken into consideration.

"Cas, take Dean to the shower and let him get changed," you urge.

"I do not think that would be wise," Castiel warns reluctantly. "Sam would not approve. He specified that Dean was to remain shackled until we can be sure-"

"_Damn it_, Cas, just do this for me! **Please**," you beg through clenched teeth as you try not to cry. "He can't sit here like that! Just...help him. If it looks like the spell's kicking in again," you mime Cas' hand-to-forehead move. "Lights out, okay?"

Cas studies your expression, struggling to identify the multitude of overwhelming emotions in your gaze. Whatever he comes up with, it's enough to make him to incline his head to you in silent agreement and understanding.

You don't tag along for the clean up.

Seeing Dean caked in your blood has done considerable damage to your compartmentalizing efforts. Before your arrival, you had done a great job mentally separating torture-time-Dean from shackled-in-the-dungeon-Dean. Now the line is getting blurry.

You use this brief period of alone-time to repair that shaky partition.

You call Sam and let him know what's going on, reassuring him that you'll be careful. After you hang up, you can't sit still. You try to sit on the edge of the table, but it brings back the memory of being on the rack. You lean against the wall, but you can't stop fidgeting. You pace, but realize that Dean will accurately interpret that as a sign of your current through-the-roof anxiety. You're just giving yourself a mental berating about the need to hold it together when they return.

Dean shuffles into the room slowly, telegraphing every movement, cautious not to give Cas a reason to put him down. He's showered and dressed in fresh clothes, and you can tell by the inflamed, bright red of his hands and forearms that he nearly scrubbed off two layers of skin trying to wash the blood away. He pauses and looks to you imploringly, but doesn't approach.

"Can you...?" He tries desperately, raising his arms slightly, imploring you to come over to him, if possible.

You look to Cas and nod, telling him to be ready, just in case, then slowly go to Dean.

When you meet his gaze, his green eyes are a hurricane of pain, fear, and desperation. Your stomach is in knots as you slowly raise your arms to hug him, but you ignore your trepidation.

Dean wraps his arms around you immediately, holding you tighter than he ever has before, as if he's terrified you're going to slip away. He buries his face against the side of your neck, inhaling your scent and nuzzling your skin.

"_Oh, God, baby... What did I do?_" He finally manages to whisper fearfully.

You shake your head and run your fingers through his hair, pressing a kiss to his temple as you soothe, "Nothing we need to talk about yet."

"But-"

"Shhh. It's all right. Just hold me for a while, okay?"

He nods against your shoulder and does as you ask. He stands there for several minutes, holding you close while his own shoulders tremble with silent tears. You stroke his back and kiss the side of his head, offering quiet words of reassurance.

Finally, he lets go, but instead of stepping back, he reaches down for the hem of your shirt.

"What are you doing?" You ask nervously and grab his wrists, trying to stop him from pulling up your shirt.

"Just have to check something. I had this image in my head when I woke up and-" He stops speaking as his hands still.

His body goes rigid as he stares at your stomach.

"Dean..." You breathe, but trail off. You know what he's seeing - or rather, not seeing - and you have no idea what to say.

"Your scars are gone," he whispers. "Your scars are all **gone**."

He frantically runs his hands across your newly-flawless skin, seeking some trace of your past injuries.

"You said Cas had a busy day," he breathes in horrified realization as he meets your gaze with wide eyes. "He healed you. Oh God..." He looks like he's going to be sick. "Oh my God, I really _did that_ to you? Did you die? Did I _kill_ you?!"

"No, baby," you assure tearfully. "No. You didn't."

He steps around you, ignoring your reply, likely fearing that you'll lie to spare him.

"Cas? Did she die?" He demands.

The angel looks to you, seeking permission to respond.

"Don't look at _her!_" Dean shouts and slams his fist down on the table. "You answer _me_, Cas!"

"It's okay," you offer quietly. "Tell him the truth."

Cas nods before turning his attention back to Dean. Unfortunately, there's more truth to be told than what you're aware of.

"No," Castiel answers honestly. "She did not die. While it is true that Death was present, her soul did not leave her body for him to take."

"_What?_" You gasp in astonishment.

In response to that revelation, Dean reflexively takes your hand, clutching it as if you're about to fall off a cliff. You find yourself stepping closer, as if the proximity can prevent you from being taken from him.

"You mean he came to collect her himself? Why would he do that?" Dean demands anxiously.

"He did not explain his motives...or speak at all, for that matter, to either Sam or myself," Cas offers with a furrowed brow. "However, I believe his presence was a favor to you, Dean. He allowed her more time than she would have been granted otherwise."

"More time? You mean more time for her to be tortured! _By me!_" Dean explodes furiously and releases your hand as if it's burned him. "More time so that I could do worse to her than any other person would have survived!"

"His interference did permit us to save her," Castiel reminds. "Had another reaper come, they would have collected her soul far sooner, and she would not be standing here with you now. After battling to reach you both, it took almost all of my remaining power just to heal her. I would not have been able to resurrect her, had she died."

Dean turns towards you, his face a mask of fury, but his eyes are full of regret and anguish.

"How can you be in here with me?" He demands. "How can you be letting me touch you after what I did to you?"

His eyes grow distant and by the way the color drains from his face, you know he's recalling more. He closes his eyes tightly, his jaw flexing as tears run down his cheeks.

"You..._begged me _to stop," he forces out through clenched teeth. "You said... 'Please, babe. Please listen to me. You have to stop. I'm going to _die_ if you don't stop.' And... I just laughed," he sobs. "Oh God, I can hear you **screaming**."

It's finally too much.

He turns away and falls to his knees in front of the trash can, alternating between retching and weeping. When you crouch beside him, placing your hand on his back to comfort him, he recoils from your touch.

"Go. Just get out of here. Leave me. Please," he begs.

You wince and let your hand drop.

"Okay. Okay, Dean. I'll walk out of this room and I'll give you some time, babe," you offer before pressing a hard kiss to the side of his head. "But I am not _leaving_ you," you declare determinedly.

He covers his face with both hands as you stand and walk out the door.

* * *

**A/N:** Ssoooo...? What do you think so far? Are you clutching tissues, sniffling, and cursing at me? LOL Or are you enjoying it (still sniffling) and looking forward to the next part? Which one got you right in the feels in this chapter - Dean or Sam? Or both? Tell me what's on your mind :)


	5. Brotherly Berating

The following day is possibly the longest of your life, and that's really saying something.

After bringing Kevin back to the bunker early in the morning, Cas went with Sam to check out that building. Thankfully, they found it clear of any lingering magic.

It's late evening now and Sam is only twenty minutes out, having needed to drive the Impala back. You'd be lying if you said you weren't thrilled. You can't wait to see him, and to have backup to help Dean get through this.

As it stands, Dean hasn't let you anywhere near him all day. And he apparently put the shackles back on himself. According to Cas, who has been watching over him since early afternoon, Dean doesn't seem to care that the spell is finished, either. He's not going to take any chances in case he's still dangerous.

You're seated on the floor outside of the dungeon door, where you've been exclusively since walking away from Dean. You're currently sipping a mug of steaming chamomile tea that Kevin took it upon himself to bring for you. Apparently, his Mom always told him that there's no worry, hurt, or problem that can't be solved by a good cup of tea. Kevin knows without being told that you're dealing with all of the above.

The prophet is sitting next to you on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, hugging his knees to his chest and staring at the wall. He hasn't said or asked much, but you swear you can hear the questions swirling around in his head.

You toy with the idea of just telling him what happened, because he seems to be driving himself crazy worrying. But that would require you to put it into words, and you don't think you can handle that yet.

As if the last of his restraint just gave out, he finally speaks up.

"Something really bad happened to you and Dean, huh?" He says quietly. "Like, even by our standards?"

"Yup." You answer simply, keeping your eyes trained on your tea.

Kevin nods and watches you blow into your mug to cool the liquid. He waits a moment before speaking again.

"Are you okay?" He asks, his voice conveying his sincere concern.

You smile over at him weakly and give his hand an appreciative squeeze. "Yup."

"Are you _Winchester_-okay, or normal-person-okay?" He asks suspiciously.

You laugh lightly at the fact that there's a vast difference between the two.

"Hmm..." You say, tapping your chin thoughtfully. "I suppose I'm Winchester-okay."

Kevin shakes his head. "So, really not okay at all, but carrying on regardless? Brave face, hunter's duty, yada yada?"

"Sounds about right," you agree.

"_No wonder you ended up with Dean_," he mutters.

You smile sadly at that. You did end up with Dean... Now you just have to find a way to _keep_ him.

Kevin frowns, noting the sadness that his statement seems to have stirred in you.

"I'm not gonna ask, since nobody seems to want to talk about it," he sighs. "But...whatever happened to you...whatever you went through... I'm sorry," he offers.

You lean your head on his shoulder and close your eyes. "Thank you."

"Is Dean...? Is he gonna be all right?" He asks worriedly, glancing past you to the closed dungeon door.

"I'm gonna do everything in my power to help him be," you assure.

You both look up as the door at the far end of the hall opens and Sam walks through.

"Hey," Sam greets, approaching quickly.

"Hey," you answer as you put down your mug and eagerly climb to your feet.

Whatever inconsequential things Sam is carrying, he quickly sets down on the floor in favor of focusing on the _far_ more important task of giving you a tight hug. You lean into him, in dire need of the flannel-clad reassurance. He waits patiently for you to let go first. You keep him waiting for a while.

When you finally step back, he strokes your cheek with the backs of his fingers and studies your eyes.

"How you holding up?" He asks.

You shrug noncommittally, unable to muster a cheerful lie.

"Dean say anything to you since last night?" He asks hopefully.

"Does '_stay away from me_' count?" You ask with a weak smile.

Sam shakes his head and mirrors your expression.

"Well, maybe this'll help him feel more sociable." He leans down to pick up the greasy fast-food bags and drink that you hadn't paid any attention to previously.

"Cheeseburgers?" Kevin asks as he stands up.

"Bacon _double_ cheeseburgers," Sam corrects. "Along with fries and onion rings. Basically a heart-attack combo. Kind of a Dean-cure-all."

Your stomach chooses that precise moment to growl incriminatingly loud.

Sam's scrutinizing gaze is on you in an instant.

You wince.

"When's the last time you ate?" He demands.

"She hasn't eaten at all since I got back here," Kevin narcs.

"And you couldn't keep anything down yesterday..." Sam recalls in concern. He inhales slowly and deeply through his nose (International Sign of Sam Displeasure). "Tell me you've at least eaten _something_ since...everything that happened?" He pleads.

"Haven't been able to get my stomach to cooperate with the idea," you admit quietly and avert your eyes.

"You _have to_ eat," Sam stresses. "You told me that if I let you come here without me, you were going to take care of yourself."

There's the crux of it. He feels like it's his fault you're hungry, like he dropped the ball on ensuring that Dean's woman was healthy and safe while she was his responsibility.

"It's a mental thing, Sam," you offer. "Wouldn't have made a difference if I was with you or not."

You're still having that mental block about food traveling through your recently-disemboweled intestinal tract. Doesn't do much for a girl's appetite.

Sam gives your arm a sympathetic rub, but still looks deeply concerned.

"I'll try again later, I promise," you assure weakly.

"You're keeping the tea down," Kevin points out. "How about soup?" He suggests, eager to help in some way.

Sam holds his hand up to Kevin, giving you a look that conveys his adamant approval of the suggestion and expectation for you to follow it.

"I guess I'm having soup," you relent, knowing there's no use arguing. His mind's made up. You look at the closed dungeon door again, then back to Sam. "You ready for this?"

He sighs and nods. "Have to be," he declares. "Dean needs me."

**-SPN-**

Beyond the door, beyond your earshot, Sam passes Castiel on the way into the dungeon.

"How is he?" Sam asks quietly.

"No different than before. He still refuses to allow her to enter, still keeps himself restrained." Cas looks over his shoulder at Dean and his features take on a remarkably human expression of forlorn regret. "I have made several attempts, but... I have been unable to find words to offer him any measure of comfort."

Sam smiles sadly, touched by the angel's sincere, innocent desire to help Dean in some way.

"It's okay, Cas. I'm sure he appreciates the effort," Sam assures.

Cas frowns deeply. "I assure you, I did not glean appreciation from his replies."

Sam pats the angel's shoulder. "How about you go keep her and Kevin company? I'll stay with him."

"You will let me know if I can be of any assistance?" Cas presses.

"Definitely," Sam assures.

Reluctantly, the angel inclines his head and takes his leave.

Sam watches him go, waiting for the door to close before turning his attention to the huddled figure of his brother at the far end of the room. Sam approaches the table slowly. Dean is sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the wall, his head hanging low in shame.

"Brought you food," Sam says, sitting the bags down.

Dean doesn't bother to look up.

Taking a deep breath, Sam walks around the table. He stares down at his brother and puts on his best bitch-face.

"Not even gonna talk to _me_?" He demands impatiently.

He really doesn't blame his brother for feeling like shit, or for wanting to wallow in self-hate, but sometimes Dean just needs someone to shake him really hard to snap him out of his guilt sessions. And more often than not, Sam has to be the one to do the shaking.

"What's there to say?" Dean mutters.

"So, you're going the route of self-pity then?" Sam admonishes as he takes a seat in one of the chairs.

"Screw you, Sammy," Dean snaps bitterly.

"Get up and eat," Sam orders, only waiting a moment before slapping the side of Dean's knee. "Come on. _Up_."

Dean glares up at him, his jaw flexing furiously and nostrils flaring. But fury is better than sorrow, and Sam will take angry-Dean over devastated-Dean any day.

Grudgingly, Dean drags himself to his feet. The chains rattle on the floor and Sam rolls his eyes in feigned irritation, expertly hiding the true emotions he's feeling. He learned this lesson well from watching his father and Dean.

"Seriously? Are you kidding me with this?" He asks, pointing at the shackles. "You know damned well the spell is done."

"Ease off," Dean warns, dragging the bags over to himself as he takes a seat beside his brother at the table.

Sam watches Dean hesitate before reaching into the bags, watches him slowly open the wrappers, fight to take each bite, struggle hard to swallow every. single. time. He knows that images of the gruesome torture are flashing through his brother's mind, making it nearly impossible to stomach the meat. It's the reason Sam made sure the burgers were damned near charred to a crisp.

Sam pulls the order of fries from the bag and steals a few, knowing it'll be the fastest way to get Dean to eat them. It works, as always.

After a few moments of tense silence, Sam makes his move.

"She needs you, you know," he states before taking a bite, keeping his eyes on the task of opening a packet of ketchup.

Dean laughs bitterly. "She needs to run as far away from me as she can," he corrects.

He tries like hell to take another bite for a minute, but finally gives up and abandons the burger, dropping it back into its wrapper with a heavy sigh and reaching for the onion rings.

"Why?" Sam asks nonchalantly, then adds with intentional cruelty, "Did having her blood on your hands make you miss the good old days? That old itch starting up again? You just waiting for the chance to get her back under your knife?"

Predictably, Dean's features twist in adamant denial and disgust in response.

"What? _No!_" He chokes out. His eyes quickly well with tears that both brothers know he'll fight tooth and nail to hold back.

"I'm just curious as to why she should be running," Sam says in feigned innocence. "You think one of these days you're just gonna wake up, look over at her sleeping peacefully next to you, and get hit with the uncontrollable urge to carve her up again? To show her all of Alistair's favorite moves?"

Dean's chair rakes across the floor as he stands quickly, recoiling, desperately trying to escape the burn of Sam's words. His escape is just as quickly halted when he runs out of slack on the chains.

"_NO! _God, no!" He shouts in revulsion and horror at the thought of doing those things to you, breathing heavily as he fights to keep his emotions at bay.

"_WHY NOT?!_" Sam explodes unexpectedly, knocking his own chair over as he jumps to his feet.

Dean flinches as Sam gets in his face and stares him down, goading him for a reaction.

"_Why_ is that so difficult to even _HEAR_?" Sam demands furiously.

"Because-!" Dean tries to shout in response, but stops, shaking his head instead of speaking.

"Because _what_, Dean?! Because the last thing you'd ever willingly do is hurt her? Because you would have rather _died_ than do that to her?" Sam snaps purposefully.

Dean avoids eye contact at all costs.

Sam nods and steps back, having proven his point.

"**Exactly**," Sam declares. "If it weren't for that spell, you never would've hurt her. She _knows that_, man. Why don't you want to accept it?"

Dean turns away, gripping the back of his head with both hands and struggling to keep it together.

"How can she possibly know that after what she just went through, Sam? How can she just be okay with this?" He chokes out.

Even with his back turned, Sam can hear that Dean's lost the battle with his tears. Sam closes his eyes and shakes his head, listening to his brother sob softly.

"But she's _not_, Dean," he finally assures in barely more than a whisper. "She's not even close to okay."

Dean stills and silences.

After a moment, he looks over his shoulder at his brother, his tearful eyes pleading for him to go on.

Sam sighs and sits back down, realizing that Dean expects the whole truth. And maybe this is exactly what he needs to hear.

"She was in shock... catatonic... for almost an entire day," Sam begins reluctantly as he scrubs a hand across his face. He is not looking forward to reliving this. "I got her off that table, took her to the room, cleaned her up, got her in fresh clothes, and she didn't respond to me once. Not _once_, Dean."

Dean slowly turns to face him, his eyes shining with heartache, but also pleading for his brother to continue.

"I tried everything I could think of, but she wouldn't talk. Wouldn't look at me. Barely blinked. Breathed so damned shallow, I had to keep checking her pulse just to know she was still alive. At one point, she tried to come out of it enough to eat after I begged for twenty minutes, but she couldn't keep it down. I didn't know what to do to help her. I got her to fall asleep, but then the _nightmares_..."

Sam's voice breaks. He trails off and grits his teeth, his jaw flexing as he shakes his head.

"She wanted _you_, Dean. Needed _you_. She still does."

Dean turns away, staring down at the shackles on his wrists and thinking things through.

"Tell me this," Sam presses. "If it had been some other guy that did it to her, if somebody else had been the one to torture her damned near to death, would you have left her to deal with it on her own? Or would you be out there with her right now, helping her get through it?"

Dean gives his brother a repentant look in response.

"Because that's how she sees it," Sam assures. "She sees a clear separation between you and the person that spell turned you into. She knows your past, Dean. But she knows it's just that - your _past_.

"And she didn't just _get over_ what happened. She only forced herself to snap out of it when she heard we were leaving you here alone. She got up out of that bed... She put on a smile and all the appearances of being okay, but it's only because she thinks that's what you need from her - what we all need from her. She's pretending she's not broken up inside because she's afraid of pushing you even further away. Afraid that the rest of us won't be able to handle it if she falls apart."

Sam stands and approaches his brother, slowly reaching for the shackles.

"But she can't even eat, Dean," he manages in a hoarse whisper as he removes the restraints from his brother's wrists. "And she's not even bothering to try to sleep. She can't keep this up for much longer."

After dropping the shackles to the floor, he grips the back of Dean's neck and meets his brother's eyes intensely.

"I'm sorry about what happened... But you have _got_ to get your shit together here, man," Sam forces out past a lump in his throat. "You owe her that much."

* * *

**A/N:** What d'ya think? Did you enjoy the 'broment'? Favorite part? Least favorite part?


	6. Bedtime Story

You moan in your sleep, slowly coming to consciousness. You can't remember when you drifted off. The bed beneath you is hard and uncomfortable, definitely not your own. You try to stretch, only to realize in blind panic that you're restrained again.

You can hear the sounds of blades and instruments scraping and clinking together on the table beside you. You whimper and try to fight down your growing terror.

You feel him lean down over you, feel his lips brush your ear, hear his voice, low and deadly. His blade comes down across your stomach, and...

You jackknife upright, muscles rigid, gasping, and looking around yourself wildly. Your heart is hammering in your ears as you try to focus on your surroundings.

Everything is too _bright_. Far brighter than the Hell of your nightmare.

You continue gasping for air as you gradually become aware of the fact that you're in the bunker. You're in the war room, surrounded by concerned faces. But it all seems miles away. The sounds are muted, the worried questions muffled as if you're hearing them under water.

There are large, heavy hands on your shoulders. You instinctively try to yank free of their reach, try to escape, only to be grabbed more firmly.

Before panic can take hold, before you start frantically fighting off whoever is restraining you, Sam calls your name forcefully, giving your shoulders a shake. Your eyes widen as you finally focus on his face. Just that quickly, everything slides into place. You take a deep, staggered, relieved breath. Your nightmare loses its hold as Sam talks you through it.

"_Easy_. That's good. Just look at me. Try to slow your breathing. You're okay. It's over."

You fight to calm down, and as the fear fades, the embarrassment surges. Your eyes wander from Sam, to Cas, to Kevin. You wonder what you said or did in your sleep to cause such a team effort to wake you up.

You close your eyes and wince. You can't remember dozing off... You know you had soup (to avoid catching hell from Sam), but you barely remember sitting down in this chair. You're not even sure at this point how long you've gone without more than a few moments of fitful sleep. Has it been two days since the torture? Three? It's all blending together.

When your breathing is finally back to normal, when you've nodded for the fifth time to Sam that you're okay, you stand up.

"I'm gonna... go lay down in my room," you mutter, desperate to get away from them all.

Sam eyes you appraisingly, but reluctantly nods and moves out of your way.

As you shuffle unsteadily to the hallway, you're too out of it to notice the fourth set of eyes watching your retreat from the far side of the room. You don't know that Sam wasn't alone when he came looking for you.

The walk back to your room is almost impossible. Each step takes a herculean effort. You can feel an all-out breakdown coming on, but there's no way in hell you're doing it within earshot of the guys.

It takes all of your strength, but you manage the long trek without losing it. When you finally close your door and press your back against it, however, it's like the whole world comes crashing down on your shoulders.

Your legs crumple beneath you. The floor is cool under your palm as you struggle to hold yourself up, your other hand covering your mouth as you sob. You somehow manage to crawl to your bed and pull yourself on top of it, but you're crying so hard that you're barely aware of the movement.

You lose track of time as you bawl unabashedly. You try to reign in your emotions, to once again slap a bandaid over your broken heart and mind, but it won't work. So you figure maybe this is what you need. To let it out for a little while... alone, with no one to pipe down for...

_And no one to comfort you_...

At that thought, you curl in on yourself even tighter and sob even harder, missing Dean with all of your heart. You can't remember the last time you held him properly. Not since before you left for the hunt. It's definitely been days.

Fear grips you tightly that this is it, that you've really lost him. You tried so hard to be okay for him, to help him get past this, but it was no use. He's pushed you so far away, you don't know what you can ever do to bring him back.

You're so involved in your hopeless sorrow that, at first, you think you're imagining the familiar dip of the mattress beside you. The feeling of strong arms wrapping around you, holding you close. The lips pressing to your brow. The soft, rumbling words of comfort.

You whimper when you catch his scent, strong and real, and you find yourself breathing in _Dean_.

You look up at him slowly through your tears, trying (with little success) to calm yourself for his sake, to protect him from witnessing the extent your pain, to slow your breathing enough to say something witty or sarcastic for his benefit.

With his hands framing your face and his calloused thumb tenderly swiping through the tear tracks on your cheek, he meets your gaze. His tearful green eyes convey an overwhelming level of regret and adoration. He shakes his head, urging you not to speak. Not to hide this from him. There's no need.

He presses his lips to yours, and you press back desperately, inhaling deeply through your nose as you reach up and grip the backs of his hands. You deepen the kiss almost frantically, eagerly seeking the pleasure and peace his touch always brought you. He kisses back with just as much fervor, giving and receiving comfort from the contact in equal measures.

When you pull apart long enough to breathe, he presses his forehead to yours and soothes, "I'm here, baby. We're gonna get through this."

You close your eyes tightly, nodding your fervent agreement with the words you had so desperately needed to hear. Even as your tears flow freely, you kiss him hungrily again. This time you grip his shoulders, run your hands down his back, and press your body flush with his. All you want is to be closer, to feel him, to feel that _connection_ you've come to rely on.

He gets the message and is apparently of the same mind. His hands move over your body roughly, possessively. He doesn't treat you as if you're fragile because of what happened - thank God - but rather, shows himself that you're still with him. That you're still whole and solid and strong and alive. That you're not leaving him.

The room fills with the sounds of your desperate kiss, your combined panting, your occasional whimpers, his occasional groans. You paw and grope at one another, frantic and fumbling, pulling at clothing, clumsily shoving aside layers to reach skin.

He slides your pants off quickly, but you're both in too much of a rush to remove the rest of one another's clothing. You roll over onto your back, pulling him along with you, letting him settle into his reserved and rightful place between your thighs. You hurriedly unbuckle his belt, unfasten his jeans, and slide both pants and boxers down his hips just far enough to grant you access. He simply pushes your panties aside and out of his way.

He slides into you quickly, finding your body eager to receive him. You both groan appreciatively into the continuous starved kiss you're sharing.

You settle into a _hard_, slow, and measured rhythm together, moving as one, gaining so much more from this than the intense sexual gratification. It's something tangible. Something to hold onto. A physical act that proves that you're together, that you're both okay, that you're not going to lose one another to the horror you've both endured.

The closer you get to your ends, the harder you both thrust against one another, the louder you moan for one another. Your entire bed is rocking with the force of your combined movements.

Dean pulls away from your kiss just far enough to nip at your lips and start his familiar, gruff, pre-orgasmic rambling against your mouth. You often wonder whether he's even aware he's doing it, because ofttimes he speaks more open truth in those moments than any other time you're together.

"_God, baby girl... Feel so good... So tight... Gonna make me come so fast_..."

That's standard, but there's more to be said this time.

"_Thought I was gonna lose you, baby... So sorry I hurt you... Was so scared you'd never let me touch you again... I love you, baby_..."

That's definitely new.

You moan and wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him down on top of you tightly and whispering in his ear, _"I love you, Dean. So much, babe_."

He comes with a choked cry and buries himself inside you as his body goes rigid. You grind against him, frantically chasing your own orgasm. As it breaks, you throw your head back, crying out for him and panting his name.

"_That's it. Come for me, baby. So beautiful like this_," he rumbles as he watches your features twisting in pleasure. He rocks his hips for you, grinding down against you to help you ride out the aftershocks.

Once your body has given every ounce of pleasure it's willing to, Dean settles down atop you, kissing your face and wrapping his arms around you.

After a moment, you nuzzle under his chin, hiding away from the world there as you sob softly, equally as broken as you are relieved. You shake your head and whimper against his throat, "I'm so tired, babe. I'm just so damned _tired_."

He strips you both down quickly and shifts you to a more comfortable position, running his hand through your hair as he whispers, "Then sleep."

"I can't, Dean," you manage in a choked whisper. "I keep seeing... The nightmares are just so..."

He shushes you and shakes his head. "They're just dreams. It's over. I'm right here. And I'll still be right here when you wake up, okay? I've got you."

For several moments, you try to do as he says. You try to nod off, but you keep catching yourself and jolting awake - terrified of whatever new horror awaits you in your nightmares. His voice jars you from your dread.

"You're thinking too much," he declares with a reassuring smile that you can hear in his voice. "Hey... Remember the first night I slept in here with you?"

He cranes his neck to peer down at your face, waiting for you to smile weakly and nod. Satisfied, he settles back down on the pillow and returns to his favored pre-sleep ritual of running his hand through your hair.

"I wanted you so damned bad, girl. You just don't even _know_," he chuckles. "Walking around with those tight jeans, that sweet little ass lookin' good enough to bite... _Mmm_. Daydreamed about you just about every day. Would've sat up and begged for it if I'd thought it'd get me anywhere with you. But you weren't having any of it. Thought you'd sworn off sex or something, the way you kept shooting me down.

"And then you went and made it sound like you'd been hooking up on the sly... Like, rather than be with me, you'd slept with nameless barflies...without me even knowing about it? Ooh, you had better _believe_ that pissed me off. Almost got in my car and retraced our route for the past year just to kick the ass of every guy who had ever so much as looked at you.

"But I couldn't believe, even if I wasn't there, that Sam would've ever let you out of his sight with some random dude. Then I thought... Oh _shit!_ Maybe you and _Sammy_... But that just didn't fit. I'd have believed you two braided one another's hair while watching Pride and Prejudice before I'd have ever believed you were screwing. You two are like best girlfriends or something."

You laugh at that and he gives you a little squeeze, appreciative of the sound. Your heart warms as you realize that you're getting Dean's version of a bedtime story. You snuggle closer, resting your ear against his chest, listening to the beating of his heart and the soft rumble of his voice.

"I didn't know what to do," he admits with a sigh. "I was so crazy about you, but you didn't seem at all interested. So that night, after a lot of liquid courage, I decided to give it one last shot. If you didn't want me for whatever reason, I figured I'd just have to deal with it.

"And then you said you wouldn't sleep with me because it wouldn't be _enough_. Not that you didn't want me, but that you wanted _more_ than that with me..." He exhales slowly, recalling the apparent emotional impact your words had on him.

"I didn't even know what to say. How was I supposed to make you understand that I felt the same way? That every chick I'd been with since we'd met had been a poor substitute? And you damned sure wouldn't have believed me if I told you any of that after I'd been drinking.

"Once you fell asleep, I stayed awake that whole night. Did you know that? Just watching you, falling even harder for you, wondering how the hell I was ever gonna convince you to give me a chance... You looked so gorgeous, baby. So perfect, just like you do now. Curled up against me. Hair all down for me. I never wanted to leave this bed. Had to sabotage those hair ties the next morning. There was no way I was letting you pull it back up all tight after seeing you like this.

"The next night, I tried to stay in my room, but even my memory foam was crap in comparison to being with you. Didn't know whether or not you were gonna kick my ass for coming in here again, especially when I was sober, but I had to try. And when I slid in beside you, and you sat up and just about blew my head off before your eyes were even all the way open? It was settled. I just had to have you, baby.

"You're everything I ever wanted, all wrapped up in a damned near edible little body. Every second I waited was worth it. I'd wait all over again for you if I had to."

He leans down and kisses you slowly and deeply. You sigh contentedly into his kiss, your tears now long-since forgotten as sleep slowly takes you.

"_We're gonna be fine, baby,_" he whispers. "_I'm not letting you go that easy_."

"_And I'm not running_," you reply with a drowsy smile before drifting off to sleep in his arms.

* * *

**A/N:** Aaannddd that's a wrap - at least for this story. Thoughts? Favorite parts or lines? Love or hate this 'verse? Love or hate my take on Dean, Sam, Cas, and Kevin? Want to read another installment (_that I may or may not already be 70% finished writing_)? Were you able to see everything clearly? Take a moment and let me know what you think! I absolutely love hearing from readers. :)


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